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18-interlude: the would-be king

"There are a lot of things I've done that I hope someday I can be forgiven for. If there are any gods left, watching life play out on the shambles of this ruined earth, maybe they'll be kind whenever I pass into their realm. It's the least they owe us, right? For sitting on the sidelines all this time. Don't make that face, Namjoon-ah. Ghosts haunt all of us in different forms. I have my regrets, and then the things I wouldn't change for all the money and status in the world. Helping you has always fallen into the second category. Please make sure it never switches over to the first."

- Excerpt from a letter by Kim Seokjin to his cousin, Kim Namjoon

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He takes Park Jimin home, a silent gulf hovering between them in the car and then the elevator ride up to his floor. He stares first out the window and then at the ticking numbers and tries to organize everything in his head—lay a timeline down that will give Jimin a coherent picture without straying too far into the painful, shadowed parts. Though, maybe, that's exactly where he needs to go. Just dig up the fucking roots and get it over with. Does he trust Park Jimin that much? Does he trust anyone that much?

The elevator dings—a cheerful sound he's always loathed—and Jimin punches in the code to the front door, which Seokjin doesn't remember ever teaching him. As soon as the door closes behind them, Jimin is reaching for his collar. Seokjin watches as Jimin practically tears the strip of leather from his neck and hurls it onto the couch. He doesn't stop there, though. Next go the sparkly earrings, then the fancy shoes, then he reaches up with the sleeve of his white shirt and frantically wipes the makeup from his face, ruining the pristine fabric in the process.

Seokjin doesn't know what to say and can't look at the bruising on Jimin's neck for too long without wanting to throw up, so he stumbles into the guest bathroom and retrieves a bunch of wet wipes from a drawer. Jimin blinks at him when he returns to hand them over.

"For your face," he says, since Jimin's makeup has smeared down his cheeks and under his eyes.

Jimin nods and takes the wipes with a shaky hand. Seokjin leaves him again—scrubbing roughly at the remnants of makeup—to see what alcohol he can excavate from his cupboards and fridge. No law says he has to be sober for this conversation. His phone buzzes as he's pulling out a bottle of whiskey. It's Sohyun, asking why he left the party, saying that she was hoping to speak with him. He reads beneath the innocuous words to the demand underneath: come back.

Come back.

With hands shaking nearly as bad as Jimin's, he unscrews the cap on the bottle and takes a large gulp of the whiskey, swallowing through the aching burn of it in his throat.

Give me a few hours, he texts back. Dealing with my companion.

It's not even really a lie. He almost starts laughing at that, but he doesn't think it would sound very sane at the moment, so he settles for another mouthful of whiskey. No law says he has to be sober to deal with Sohyun, either, or what she's inevitably going to request of him tonight.

Ha. Might as well break all the way, right? What the hell.

"You should share the alcohol," Jimin rasps, suddenly on the opposite side of Seokjin's little breakfast counter. He startles, but dutifully hands over the bottle and watches Jimin swallow down even more than he did.

Jimin sets the bottle down between them when he's done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I don't know where to start," Seokjin admits and feels more vulnerable than he has all night.

"At the beginning?" Jimin suggests. His silver hair has come free from it's rigid styling, flopping onto his forehead. It makes him look younger.

A punch of laughter finally breaks free from Seokjin's mouth, knocking against his teeth and hitting the air in a staccato burst.